Night Music
by Melody Harper
Summary: Parenthood is hard when each case steals a piece of you, leaving something of itself instead…embedded deep…the stench of tragedy. Sometimes you have to find a way to let it go…let it out…save yourself from being crippled by it.
1. Crescendo

Hotch bent over his desk, intent on appearing so entrenched, so lost in concentration that no one would dare interrupt.

He _was_ lost, but not in any productive zone. In truth, the same two words were running through his mind. They'd begun at a low, crunching walk on the flight home. Then, they'd picked up speed. Now they were rushing at a pace that made a whining sound on his inner ear.

Hotch bent lower over the papers he pretended to read.

Soon those two dreadful words would escalate to a sonic scream. And he wasn't sure he'd be able to keep from joining them, shrieking out his anger and hate and outrage right along with them.

Feeding their momentum with the last vestiges of his self-control.

He wanted to take off his tie. He wanted to toe his shoes off beneath his desk. He wanted to undo his belt, pull it off with a sliding, ripping sound, and drop it to the floor. _Hell, I want to strip naked and run through the rain until someone stops me. Forcibly. Forcibly enough to hurt._

None of which he could do without attracting undue attention as actions unbecoming a BAU Unit Chief. Or a person at home in their own mind. You know…a _sane_ person…

He bent lower over his pretend-work.

Every few minutes he'd sneak a look toward his office window, through the slatted blinds, and into the bullpen beyond; a dark, flickering of his eyes that no one would notice. _Just hold on. It was a long case. We got back late. Everyone knows the reports aren't due until tomorrow. They'll all go home pretty soon._

Hotch bent low and waited for everyone to leave, looking intense so no one would stop in to say goodnight, or ask him how long he planned on staying, or if everything was okay. _Because everything's_ _ **not**_ _okay!_

He had no idea what he'd do once he was well and truly alone. The two words would no doubt escape their mental cage and splatter outward.

He had no idea what that would look like.

But he was sure it wasn't anything he'd want his team to witness.

 _Just…hang…on…_

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Morgan pushed back in his chair, stretching his arms up and out as far as he could, accompanying the joint-popping movement with a satisfied groan, half pain, half pleasure. He dropped his pen on top of the sheaf of papers he'd been proofing and reached around to switch off his computer.

"Yo. Prentiss. You feel like hittin' someplace? Slammin' back a few?" He knew she was his best bet for a partner when it came to skirting the edges of propriety and dabbling in the shadier extracurricular activities that appealed to him at the moment. Anything to blunt the edges of this last case.

"Yeah. Sure." She tossed her own pen down and did a fair approximation of Morgan's languorous, elaborate stretch. "This stuff'll still be here tomorrow. Might be easier to take with a hangover blurring it a little."

Morgan watched J.J. turn off the lights in her office and descend the ladder-like steps into the bullpen. He knew what her answer to the invitation would be. She'd rather go home and shed the case and the day in the company of her little family. For a moment he envied her. Only for a moment. He wasn't to the point of settling down just yet. As the liaison approached, Morgan turned to the other possible drinking partner still pushing paper.

"Reid? You in?" No answer. Derek crumpled a vagrant Post-It and tossed it at the young doctor where it stuck in a tangle of brown curls. "Yo! Reid!"

"Huh? What?" Spencer's large, honey-amber eyes gazed about as though he found himself in unfamiliar surroundings. He blinked, still looking a little blank.

"Focus, genius. You wanna go with Prentiss and me? Suck down a few beers? Or any other poison of your choice?"

"Oh…uh…thanks, guys …ummm…"

"Spence…" J.J.'s soft voice overrode what she knew would be a clumsy grasping at excuses. Reid had trouble with social interaction. But she could read him loud and clear. _He wants company, but not loud, bar-type company. And he doesn't want to drench those magnificent brain cells in alcohol. It won't affect his memory the way it will the rest of us. He'll still have every detail, every nuance at his beck and call. But he wants them to realize he_ _ **does**_ _appreciate being asked. So few people have ever accepted him into their ranks._

All three agents looked up at J.J., waiting for her to continue. "Spence, you want me to drive you home? Maybe stop off at my place? Talk for a little?"

It was what he needed. They all knew it.

"Okay. Yeah. Thanks, J.J. That sounds good."

"So it's me and you, Prentiss. Party of two." Morgan's regard strayed to the upper deck where two offices were still occupied. "You think Rossi would wanna come? Or Hotch?"

Emily's snort gave some added depth to her opinion. "You can ask, but Rossi can afford a lot better than any bars around here would serve. And Hotch…?" All eyes tracked to the corner office. All voices fell silent for a few beats as each agent considered the figure that, to all appearances, seemed absorbed in work.

"He was so quiet on the way back."

"It hit him hard. Guess I can understand that."

"'Cause you're a parent, too, J.J."

"Yeah, but I wasn't there. What I saw were the photos. Those were bad enough. That's not the same as…you know…"

"Experiencing it. Olfactory impressions are some of the strongest and most lasting. They imprint, and, well…last."

"Thanks for the insight, kid. I'm gonna ask Rossi if he wants to get hammered anyway. Might like to slum it for a change. And maybe he can get some feelers out about Bossman."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Normally, Hotch would have sought out his son.

Even if the boy was asleep, he'd have leaned close, inhaled his scent, feeling it transport him to a place of comfort and love. He would have rested his chin on the edge of the child's bed and let his eyes drink in the sight of him, letting it seep deep, hoping it would dilute the things he'd seen in the name of duty.

Not this time.

Children were perceptive. Hotch didn't want Jack to sense the storms raging in his father's soul. He couldn't chance those innocent eyes opening and seeing the tragedy in Daddy's.

And he couldn't fool himself into thinking the boy _wouldn't_ detect a glimmer of the savagery that a brutal world deposited in his father, leaving traces like a lingering stench that took longer and longer to dissipate each time Daddy came home.

His eyes flickered toward the bullpen again, checking. Most of the team were gathered around Morgan's desk.

 _Good. They're getting ready to leave._

Hotch bit his lip. The two words tormenting him were reaching a crescendo.

 _Leave. Please. Hurry up and leave. Hurry…hurry…hurry…_


	2. Little Aaron

One hand on the banister, Morgan pulled himself up the stairs to the BAU's upper deck.

The usual vigor and bounce wasn't in his step. It was more than being tired from a long, arduous day. It was having to witness yet again the depravity of which the human animal was capable. At the top of the stairs, he paused.

Hotch's door, usually ajar to let his team know he was available to them, was closed. Peering through the blinds, Morgan saw his Unit Chief still bent low, seemingly engrossed in whatever he was reading. His forehead rested against one hand, held like a visor, partially shielding his eyes from view.

Derek stayed put for a minute, then frowned. Hotch had exceptional peripheral vision; something that he half-believed had developed after the man's hearing was impacted by multiple explosions in the field. He was sure Bossman knew someone was standing, looking at him.

The tension in Hotch's neck and shoulders fairly vibrated.

He just looked _off_.

Morgan's profiler's sensibilities were teased to the surface. _Dude's gonna break that pen, he's holdin' it so tight. Tight. That's it. Everything about m'man is tight. Like he's holding himself together._ He was reminded of frozen water in a vacant lot he'd known as a boy in Chicago. Every winter it would flood, creating the closest thing to a natural body of water that a city boy like him could visit daily. When it was close to thaw, the brittle surface would shimmer and quake with the vibrations of passing traffic. It only took the merest touch to inflict a crack that would vein and spread until the entire thing was an unstable mass of broken shards with sharp, glittering edges.

 _That's what Bossman looks like…a big ol' mass of broken._

He'd been thinking about giving Hotch's door a light rap; maybe poking his head in and asking if he was up for taking a break. But…no. _He knows I'm out here. He's making an effort_ _ **not**_ _to let on._ Morgan dug his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders and moved on.

 _This is a job for the Rossinator…_

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch felt the presence outside his window.

He prayed Morgan wouldn't come in. Another alpha male in the room, one who could defend himself with ease, would be too big a temptation. He pressed lips and eyelids tight, imagining throwing himself at an adversary, venting his pent up emotions in physical combat.

For one brief, dizzying second he considered inviting Morgan down to the training room. Taking him on.

Only this wouldn't be a sparring match. Nothing disciplined about it. Hotch would lash out in a frenzy, all the cagey prowess gleaned from years of practice falling by the wayside. In his mind's eye, he could see the surprise and horror flashing across his teammate's features as he realized there was something terribly wrong with his leader.

 _I want someone to hurt me. Fill me with physical pain so this other kind will get pushed into a corner. Please, someone make it go away. Please…_

But he knew fighting Morgan wouldn't help.

 _Go away. Don't come in. Just keep walking. Hurry…hurry…go…please…_

XXXXXXXXXX

Rossi looked up with a crooked half-smile as Morgan tapped once and leaned in through the doorway without waiting for acknowledgment.

"You kids ready to pack it in?" The senior agent began tidying his desk; standard neat-freak procedure presaging his own departure.

"Yeah. Prentiss and me, we're figurin' on going for some liquid solace. You in?"

Rossi tilted his head, giving the proposition due consideration. "Mmmmm…thanks, but nah. I told my neighbor I'd be back so he doesn't have to walk Mudge. If I don't go now, there'll be a big, messy protest waiting on the kitchen floor."

"Okay. Sure." Morgan hesitated, lingering. It was enough to alert Dave.

Rossi raised his chin, observing the younger man through narrowed eyes. "Rough case. How you doin'?"

Derek shrugged. "I'm good…I'm good, but…" He glanced up, saw only nonjudgmental interest and a genuine desire to help, if such was needed. "Rossi, I'm cool, but…Hotch…"

"Ah. Yes." Dave rubbed his beard, sighing. "Well, it was kids, you know?" His voice lowered, adopting a reverential tone when it came to the least deserving, yet most vulnerable of victims. "You know how he is…"

"That's just it, man. I _know_ how he is…" Morgan stepped further into Rossi's office, glancing back over his shoulder down the catwalk toward Hotch's. His voice lowered as well, but for privacy rather than out of respectful homage. "I _know_ how he is…and that's not it." He jerked a thumb toward the wall Dave shared with their Unit Chief. "Something's eatin' at him, Rossi. More than usual."

The senior agent nodded. There was something of weariness, of resignation about the gesture. "And you want me to feel him out."

"Maybe just take a look. See what you think?"

"Sure." Rossi shrugged into his coat, picked up his briefcase and gave his teammate a smile so truncated and sad it was a bare quirk of his lips. "You know he needs time to digest stuff like this, don't you?"

"Yeah, but…"

"Just don't worry too much. Hotch'll be fine. He always is."

"If you mean he keeps going, then yeah, he will. But he takes stuff in and doesn't let it go. You know that, man. And this time…" Morgan ran his hand over his scalp in frustration. "…well, just take a look at him. Lemme know what you think."

"I will. Have a good night, kid." Flipping off the light in his office Rossi ushered Derek out.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Dave hovered at the very edge of Hotch's office window.

He was lurking. Unlike Morgan, who had been baiting his leader to look up, Rossi wanted to observe unseen.

He decided he didn't like the view.

And he understood why Derek had been concerned.

Rossi himself had been working quietly ever since they'd boarded the jet for the flight home. He'd put a lot of effort into compartmentalizing this one. And he hadn't even been the one to take point in the field. He hadn't been first to enter the room. He hadn't been the one who was slapped in the face by the unsub's work. _God. Literally. Aaron ran right into it before any of us knew what it was._

The image began to build in his mind again, crawling its way forward toward vivid, conscious recollection. He shoved it back; a rough, mental push to thrust the thing back into its box where he hoped it would be confined for the rest of his days. _Time enough to see Hell after I'm gone. Don't need it spewing into my life now._

But Hotch…brave, bold, determined Hotch. He'd been so focused and hopeful, sure he could rescue the boys.

Little dark-haired, brown-eyed boys.

The whole team had been reminded of Jack when they'd been given photos of the missing children, but Rossi saw deeper.

He saw little Aaron, too.

He was pretty sure Hotch had seen the resemblance. Pretty sure that at some point in a childhood the man never discussed, but Dave knew had been difficult, little Aaron had had nightmares about ending up just so at the hands of a madman.

At the hands of Daddy.

So now Rossi stood back and watched his friend tremble and understood what Morgan had been trying to say. What he was looking at wasn't really SSA Hotchner. It was little Aaron whose worst suppressed fears had been released into the waking world in the form of an unsub's unholy work.

 _He took them apart…_ It was no use: the images crept forward despite Rossi's efforts.

 _He took them apart and made mobiles of them…hanging from the ceiling…rotating in gentle, horrid circles…_

… _and Aaron blundered right into them…_

… _got all tangled up…_

… _and went mute for a good half hour, his throat was so tight with terror…_


	3. Raw

Hotch cast a furtive glance toward the bullpen.

Just a quick one from beneath the shelter of his brows in case anyone happened to be looking. He didn't want eye contact. He was folding in on himself, and even that subtle, momentary form of communication was repellant to him. He didn't even want his _own_ company.

What he really wanted was to be a non-entity. A form of existence devoid of feeling or of being accountable for anything. He couldn't focus enough to explore the idea. He was too busy holding on, waiting to be alone so that whatever he _did_ feel could emerge without witnesses. He felt each breath like gravel in his chest. It would feel so good to let go, but… _Not yet…hold on…hold on…_

His split-second glance into the bullpen gave him the impression that everyone was on the way out. The main overhead lights in the BAU were dimmed in deference to the late hour. It seemed in that quick glimpse that all the desk lights were finally out. So the team had gone wherever one went after a case like this last one.

He was too mired down in his own inner workings to give much thought to the others' destinations.

He risked another darting scan of the bullpen. A small group of people were silhouetted against the brighter light of the door leading out to the corridor where the elevators were. They were moving with the slow deliberation of those who talk while balancing purses and briefcases as coats are pulled on. _Good…they're leaving…almost…almost…just a few minutes more…_

Then, he felt it. A shadowy figure on the catwalk outside his office. _Rossi! Oh…no…no…no…please don't try to help me…please leave me alone…please…_

XXXXXXXXXXX

Dave had seen enough.

Eyes locked on the figure huddled over the desk, he moved toward Hotch's closed door, reaching for the knob. And hesitated.

Like Morgan, Rossi was sure the Unit Chief was aware of his presence. When Hotch hunched his shoulders lower, twisting at the waist to present more of his back than of his profile, Dave had to consider the message: Go Away.

He also had to consider the words he'd so glibly offered Derek: Hotch needs time to digest things.

He also had to consider his own precarious position: he was still reeling from the horrors this case had presented. He wondered how much value his input would have when he couldn't yet dig himself out from under the same weight that was crushing the younger man.

Finally, he had to consider the difference between support and intrusion; between sharing grief and invading privacy.

He stood, hand on the doorknob, no longer seeing the office interior. Rossi's eyes were turned inward, scanning a landscape he wasn't sure Hotch would want to see, much less share. There was such a thing as mutual misery that only served to increase both party's sorrows. He wasn't sure if he could do any good. He considered it added incentive to back off when the grisly vision of Aaron tangled in that hellish construct the unsub had left them began to make his own gorge rise.

Rossi bit his lip, closed his eyes, and leaned his forehead against Hotch's window, needing the soothing cool of the glass. Instead of grasping the knob, his hand flattened against the door, giving it the kindly pat he'd like to give his friend.

 _No, I don't want to pat him. I want to hold him so hard he can't escape. I want to hang on until all the ugliness that's happened to him now and when he was a child leeches out of him. I want to erase the last few days for both our sakes…for_ _ **all**_ _our sakes. I want him to do whatever he has to to purge running into that…that_ _ **thing**_ _…_

He opened his eyes and looked again at Hotch's tense, half-turned back. _Maybe that's what he's doing. Maybe I need to give him some space and a chance to work it out before I tackle him and drag all his pain out and shine a glaring light on it. Maybe I'll trust him to know he can come to me. He_ _ **has**_ _to know that by now._

 _He just_ _ **has**_ _to…_

Rossi backed away, trailing his fingers across Hotch's door as he passed it on the way to the stairs, hoping his best friend would sense the decision he'd made to walk away had its roots in respect, trust, and a deep, abiding affection.

XXXXXXXXXX

Hotch's lungs hurt.

He hadn't even realized that he'd squeezed his eyes shut and was holding his breath, listening with every fiber of his slightly damaged ears, willing Rossi to pass him by. When he did understand what he was doing, his lids shot open, the breath leaving him in a _whoosh_ …

It was how he used to hide from his father.

A slender, dark-haired boy scrunching himself down as small as possible. Imagining himself transparent and silent, but unable to stop the trembling as Daddy tore through the house or the garage or the yard, muttering…never shouting…that would never do; the neighbors might have heard and put two and two together…figured out why little Aaron Hotchner was so fragile and skittish and bruised in body and soul…

But Daddy would come looking, muttering and chuckling, chuckling and muttering… "I'm gonna find you, boy. Gonna find you and tear you apart. Rip you to pieces. Gonna get you, gonna get you, gonna get you…"

As an adult, Hotch had convinced himself it was just an empty threat. His father would never have risked a murder charge. But as a child? Aaron had been terrified. Trembling so hard his teeth would chatter and his muscles cramp with the necessity of keeping still as though his life depended on it.

When he looked back now, he was sure there were times his father had known where he was hiding. He was certain Daddy had taken great delight in coming closer and closer, knowing his son was quaking like an animal with no hope of escape.

Aaron still couldn't understand that kind of amusement.

And the memories still hurt. Would _always_ hurt.

For a brief moment he regretted Dave's departure. It might be nice to have strong arms surround him and hold him together.

Because he was surely falling apart.

Daddy was still tearing him to pieces.

But then the images of this last case burned across his brain, refusing to be submerged or compartmentalized in any way. He could still feel the sensation of running into a bunch of things hanging in artistic balance.

And his breath caught again. And his chest hitched. And he was glad Rossi was gone. Didn't want anyone to see the rawness within him. _Raw…_ The mobile twisting and swaying with torn parts…damp with iron-scented liquid… He knew it was all in his mind, but the scent was still on the back of his tongue. As though he'd tasted it when it had hit him in the face.

Panting, he chanced another look out the window. Dave was making a slow way across the bullpen, following in the wake of the rest of the team.

Hotch tracked the man's progress with one white-rimmed eye. _Not long now…few more minutes…hurry…hurry…please…_


	4. Release

The staccato clack of impractical footwear echoed in the corridor.

"Baby Girl's comin'." Despite the case and the pall it had cast over everyone, Morgan managed to produce a weary, lopsided smile.

J.J., Reid and Prentiss lingered, fussing with satchels and jackets. Garcia's rainbow presence wasn't quite an antidote to horror, but it helped. It definitely helped. When she rounded the corner and minced toward them in pink, velvet platforms, every accessory bouncing, creating a symphony of percussive fashion…their shoulders loosened and chests expanded with deeper, more relaxed breaths.

"Oh! Oh! You're all here…" Eyes heavy with shadow were magnified by bright purple frames as they darted and blinked. "…or, well, maybe not _all_ , but, you know…a subset of my Fearless Crusaders and I was just thinking and I had to, you know, come and…"

Before Penelope could ramble on in her blessedly florid, wonderfully unprofessional way, the glass door to the bullpen heaved open once again, expelling a very solemn, crestfallen Rossi into their midst. His demeanor arrested Garcia's chatter and claimed Morgan's attention.

"Didn't go so well with Bossman?"

Dave glanced back over his shoulder, lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't know." A deep sigh. "I got the feeling he wanted to be alone, so…" Rossi shrugged.

"Man, that's the _last_ thing he needs!"

"Derek. Hush." J.J. had the power to override without raising her voice above a murmur. She turned sympathetic eyes on their senior agent. "How bad is he?"

"Bad." Rossi looked from face to face. The only one not suffering the aftereffects of their gruesome encounter with the unsub's work was Penelope. Still, she looked distraught enough hearing that Hotch wasn't up to par. "I think he wants some time to deal with things on his own. _And_ …" He hurried on in an effort to cut off any further objections. "…I think we should trust Hotch to know he can turn to any of us…ask for help _from_ any of us…but when the time is right for _him_. Forcing help on someone is more for the one doing the helping than for the one who requires it." Rossi's eyes were drawn back toward the darkened BAU. The others followed his glance.

"Hotch has a lot of secrets." Prentiss pulled her coat tighter as though feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature the Bureau maintained.

"Everyone has secrets, or at least aspects of themselves they'd prefer to keep private." Dave edged a few feet further down the corridor, motioning the group to follow suit. Having decided to grant Aaron his space, he didn't want the man to look up and see his team hovering in the shadows.

"Some say the truest portrait of who we are can be painted with our secrets; that what we hide is the real measure of us." Reid chewed on his lips. "It's human nature to hide."

"Not to the extent Hotch does." Rossi leaned his back against the wall. It sounded as though a full-blown profiler's discussion was about to start. Tired as he was, he realized he wouldn't mind spending some time decompressing. "That man holds his cards so close he's gone beneath the vest, through the skin, and is hovering somewhere in the vicinity of internal organs at this point."

"And you still think it's a good idea to leave Bossman on his own?"

Garcia's eyes grew rounder, if that was possible. "Oh! You don't mean…I mean, you don't think…think that White Knight would…would…"

"Harm himself? Do something stupid?" Dave's grin was rueful as he shook his head. " No. No, I don't." _But I wouldn't mind hanging around for a while under the guise of conversation with my teammates…just in case._ "People who run as deep as Hotch usually develop some kind of coping mechanism…sometimes they have multiple ones."

"I don't know if I've ever seen him employ any." Reid frowned, casting his remarkable memory back over years of working side by side with the Unit Chief. "I've seen him break…well, we all did…" He dropped his amber gaze to the ground. It was still distressing to recall Hotch sobbing his heart out over his ex-wife's corpse.

"That's different." Prentiss waded in to rescue their young genius from the discomfort of having broached a difficult subject. "But you're right. I've never seen Hotch do anything I'd consider, you know, extracurricular self-therapy."

"I think maybe his family was his therapy." J.J. felt a sympathetic lump forming in her throat. "I think Jack still is, and…"

All talk came to an abrupt halt.

A surprised ripple effect ran through them.

…the sounds.

Thinking he was alone, Hotch had let himself go.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Just a few more minutes…hang on…hang on…_

He imagined Rossi and the others making their way to the elevators at an unhurried pace. Envisioned their progress step by step. Added on a few more for good measure; just to be sure there was enough time for the hydraulic doors to have closed.

He'd been holding himself in for so long, and it had been so hard, when he finally, finally released the tension coiled within, he felt paralyzed. But only for a moment.

The two words shredding their way through his brain gathered themselves in the pause that felt more like the eye of a storm. Their eruption began with a low moan that vaulted to a guttural howl in a single, bounding leap…

"Why _children_!? Why?! Why _children_!?"

Fists knotted in the dark strands of his hair, Hotch doubled over, rocking, screaming his anger at a world so cruelly unjust that sometimes he felt he had no place in it. It defied understanding. He hated it for that. He wailed the words and let his fury build.

But rage is a flame. The hotter it burns, the faster it is consumed. Rage attached itself to the words, and flamed through his heart; the heart of a father who knew firsthand what it was like to love a child. When it was finished with him, when only ashes remained, Hotch quieted. He felt hollowed out.

But that wasn't quite true. Aching sorrow remained, like an old, familiar echo.

Something that had reverberated through his entire life. More importantly, through his entire childhood.

Eyes filled with the tragedy of the unwanted and the un-validated, he sat back and waited for his breathing to return to a normal rate. He stared out at the after-hours dimness of the bullpen, unthinking and almost unblinking, mind unfocused, free-ranging.

 _There was a song Haley used to sing. What was it?_

It had been unspeakably sad. He'd thought it strange until she left him. It had only made an appearance after they'd begun to fall apart. After she left, he realized its slow, mournful words were her way of taking leave of their marriage.

It was a song of farewell.

Blank-eyed and wrung out, Hotch's faltering steps took him out to the catwalk. He grasped the railing. His lids drifted shut. His focus narrowed down to vocalizing all the heartbreak to which mankind was heir.

Hotch began to sing. Rough at first, but then...

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

There was absolute silence in the corridor just beyond the doors to the BAU.

Hotch's teammates barely breathed in their stillness.

A beautiful baritone held them in its spell.


	5. Long, Long Time

His voice was a little coarse at first, but Hotch's inner turmoil plus the belief that he was alone, made the melody swell with emotion.

"Love will abide…

Take things in stride…

Sounds like good advice…

But there's no one by my side…"

The loneliness of the dimly lit BAU felt like the perfect stage. His audience was shadows. He sang to them from the dark corners of his own life and felt the solitude as a kindred spirit.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Out in the corridor, silence reigned. At first. Then the whispering began; breathy words pitched to maintain secrecy.

"He's singing."

"What is that? White Knight sounds so… _so_ sad."

"It's vintage." Rossi avoided the term 'old' since the song came from his own time.

"But what _is_ it?"

"A ballad judging by the tempo and…"

"I swear, Boy Wonder, if you give us a rundown on…on…on syncopation and clefs, both treble and bass, and…and…"

"Shhhh, Mama. Chill. Just listen. Man's got some pipes on him."

"Children. Quiet. It's called 'Long, Long Time.'"

"So sad."

"And lost."

"It's about heartbreak and disappointment and continuing on alone." Rossi sighed, letting the grief of the song find an echo in his own heart. "It's about saying goodbye when you have to, and owning your pain."

"That's something Hotch does on a regular basis."

"Yeah."

"He doesn't really have a choice…"

Heads bent, each member of Aaron's team listened.

XXXXXXXXXX

Hotch's fingers wrapped around the railing of the catwalk, feeling like the only things tethering him to this earth.

His voice rose and fell and then, as he poured out his bitterness and disillusionment…it soared, making the eyes of the unknown listeners in the corridor fill, making their breath catch.

"Time washes clean…

Love's wounds unseen…

That's what someone told me…

But I don't know what it means…"

He knew he wasn't getting all the words right; not the way Haley had. But the ones that came to him seemed to fit his situation more than the originals. So he didn't argue with whatever inspired them. He was only a conduit after all; only the instrument being played by internal forces he couldn't fight anymore.

"Life's full of flaws…

Who knows the cause?...

Living with the memory…

Of a love that never was…"

XXXXXXXXXXX

Garcia gave a quiet sob. She dug into her sequined, leopard-spotted purse for tissues, her bracelets jingling; a merry sound that was at odds with the pure pain of Hotch's performance.

"Shhhh…Penelope!" Prentiss wrapped her hands around the woman's wrists, trying to muffle the metallic tinkling.

Rossi's eyes were closed, listening. He didn't bother opening them. "It's okay, Emily. I don't think Hotch can hear anything outside of himself right now."

"Got that right," Morgan added. "Dude's gone someplace we can't follow."

XXXXXXXXXX

Hotch sang it through twice.

When he came to the end, the final time, his voice had lost some of the rich timbre it had exhibited once he'd hit his stride. His momentum slowed, sounding almost as though he was talking to himself, or maybe explaining what he felt was his own failure to some higher power. Or maybe asking that higher power for comfort.

It was all the more heartbreaking for the small group of huddled eavesdroppers in the hallway.

"'Cause I've done everything I could…

To try and change these times…

And I think it's gonna hurt me…

For a long, long time…"

Hotch faded into silence, the tension necessary to vocalize draining from his body. He felt better.

He almost wished that Rossi was still around. He could accept a hug now without shattering.

"Well…" He rubbed his hands over his face, scrubbing at the bristly, five-o-clock shadow that always appeared when he stayed so late at the office. "Well…" He gazed out over the empty bullpen and shrugged.

There wasn't anything left to say.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The agents in the corridor didn't need words either.

By unspoken agreement, they hustled toward the elevators. Even Garcia managed to tiptoe and keep the jangling of her fashion choices to a minimum.

Once on the garage level, J.J. and Reid veered off on their own. The liaison's offer of tea and company was even more alluring after Hotch's soulful rendition of a song Spencer wanted to discuss and Google, never having heard it before.

Morgan and Prentiss still planned on hitting the bars. A tearful Garcia was glad to be invited along. She was still resonating with the reflected sorrow of her Fearless Leader.

Plans were set. Places to meet were decided. Cars pulled out of the Bureau garage and disappeared into the Quantico night.

Except for one.

Two, if you counted Hotch's.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch took his time packing his briefcase and doing his usual end-of-day routine.

He tidied his office and set out the files that he planned to tackle in the morning.

He put on his coat and walked through the dim, silent bullpen, looking neither right nor left. His mind was trained inward; his eyes downward. He tried to analyze how he felt, and could only come up with one word to describe his inner landscape.

Blank.

The ferocity of his emotions had been blunted. But he knew very well that nothing had really been solved. There was no solution. And the two words that had tormented him hadn't been resolved either.

There would always be victims.

And some of those would always be children.

Brow furrowed, Hotch walked through the garage toward his car, hearing the empty echo of his own footsteps; wingtips on concrete. Even his slightly damaged hearing could tell by the sound that the large, subterranean space was deserted. Distracted more than usual, he fumbled for his keys.

A hand cupped his shoulder, sending his heart into a stutter.

He'd been so preoccupied, so drained, he hadn't sensed a presence. But when the touch swept him around and engulfed him in a firm, familiar hug, Hotch relaxed into it, feeling it soothe a little of the ache that still lived deep inside him. He could handle it now. The song had done that much at least.

"Aaron."

"Dave, what are you doing here? I thought you left."

"I did. Got caught up in my own thoughts, though. Just been sitting here. Glad I caught you. I could use some company. You up for it?"

At last, Hotch could honestly say he was.


	6. Choices

Hotch wasn't sure what was going on with Rossi.

They'd settled on a bar the older man favored and Aaron had followed him to it, parking side by side behind what looked like a quaint, old pub from another era. When Hotch had exited his car, Rossi'd been waiting, running a hand over the back of Aaron's shoulders as they'd walked across the parking lot, giving the nape of his neck an affectionate squeeze.

It wasn't unusual in and of itself. But there was something subliminal going on that the Unit Chief couldn't quite put his finger on at first. _He's acting tender! That's what it is. He's being extra careful and…and_ _ **tender**_ _with me._

It didn't take Hotch long to conclude it was due to his own behavior when Rossi had lingered outside his office earlier. Aaron decided he wasn't going to hide how he'd felt. Neither would he put it on display. _I just needed some time alone, that's all. Nothing odd about that._

They took a small table in a corner. A waitress in an outfit vaguely reminiscent of an Elizabethan bar-wench gave them a smile and menus that listed appetizers and other small fare meant to accompany drinks.

Rossi matched the woman's smile. "Scotch on the rocks." He tilted his head at his tablemate. "Make his a double." Hotch's brows arched, but he didn't argue. That is, until the waitress was out of earshot.

"I don't want to get drunk, Dave."

"Then you won't."

Aaron's lips thinned as he studied the older man. "I know what you're doing."

"Good. Then you'll cooperate and we'll both feel better."

The ersatz bar-wench returned, depositing cocktail napkins, a bowl of mixed nuts and pretzels, and a glass in front of each man. Hotch's was noticeably fuller.

" _Salud_." Rossi raised his drink, clinking the tumbler's rim against Aaron's. "Drink up."

The Unit Chief took a judicious sip, eyes tracking Dave's glass as he imbibed a generous swig. "What is it, Dave?"

"Wha'd'you think?...This case."

Hotch allowed himself a larger swallow of the amber liquor. It burned his throat and brought up moisture in his eyes. "I know…I know…"

"One of the most horrific things I never, ever wanted to see."

"I know…"

"The photos and the crime scene details will be kept from the parents. They don't need to be haunted by them for the rest of their lives." Rossi's dark gaze was fastened on Hotch's eyes. They'd gone distant…downcast. _But we'll never be able to run far enough or fast enough to outpace those ghosts ourselves. Not fair. Part of the job, but…not fair._

"Unless they insist on full disclosure…Unless they insist despite everyone's efforts to dissuade them."

 _Here we go…_ "And why would they do that?"

"Because…" Hotch hated how his eyes kept filling and how his voice bordered on cracking with emotion. "…Because…" His eyes flashed upward, pinning Rossi with a thousand questions and as many wishes for answers; wishes that were doomed to go unsatisfied. "…wouldn't you? Wouldn't you want to know what happened to your…your son? Wouldn't you?"

Dave gave his head one, slow, ponderous shake, raising his glass to his lips once again. "I don't know. Neither do you, Aaron. That's the kind of question that has no meaning when it's posed theoretically. It can only be answered in the moment it actually happens. It can only be asked when the circumstances bring it to the surface in a world where imagination and theory fall by the wayside."

Tragedy flooded Hotch's eyes. "…only when it crosses over into the real world…" His gaze went inward again. He remembered Haley saying something similar. Only about much more light-hearted subject matter. _She said the only way to know if she'd really accept a marriage proposal would be when it actually happened. She said no woman could know for sure until that moment it became real and all the real-life consequences attached to saying yes or no were truly hanging in the balance._

Rossi watched Hotch's wheels turning, giving the younger man a chance to test the veracity of what he was hearing. When he thought he'd had long enough… "You have a choice in situations like this, Aaron. You can choose to push forward and demand to know all the gory details. Or…" He caught Hotch's eye, making sure his words would be heard. "…or you can choose to remember all the good things. I know it sounds trite, but it's a microcosm of a greater issue. It's about which life philosophy you choose. It's about where you decide to place the emphasis on your own existence."

Hotch took a deep breath, expelling it in a gusty reaction to Rossi's speech. "That's the old 'you can't control what happens, but you can control how you react to it' thing. And yeah, it does sound trite. Because it is. Who has the luxury of sitting down and talking themselves into how they should react for the greater good of the world and themselves? Huh?" A small flame of anger flared in the dark depths of the Unit Chief's eyes. "When the big things happen, you react in a split second. You don't carry on an internal debate." The fire flamed higher. "You think I had a moment to step back after I ran into that…into that…"

Rossi's heart swelled with compassion as he watched Hotch's aggressive demeanor disintegrate. The man's eyelids slammed shut. A tremor ran through him. It took a minute or so for him to master his reaction to what was still raw inside him.

When his voice re-emerged, it was strained. "Sometimes you don't have a choice." A few deep breaths as he distanced himself a little more. "Sometimes I wonder if anything we do makes a difference."

Dave reached over and clinked his glass against the rim of Hotch's once again, knowing the younger man wasn't really thinking and taking a sip after touching glasses would be an automatic response. He was right. Aaron drank.

"If it doesn't make a difference, why do you keep on?"

Hotch shrugged. "Dunno. Sometimes I think I don't know anything. Just wandering in the dark."

"Hmmm… You wanna know what I think?"

A humorless quirk touched a corner of Aaron's lips. "That's another one of those things where I really don't have a choice. You're gonna tell me no matter what."

Rossi's genuine grin flashed for a moment. "Smartass. Listen and you'll learn something about yourself." He leaned in closer, elbows on the tabletop. "You know why you keep going? Love. Not just for Jack. For this whole messy, stupid, ugly, illogical, horror-ridden world. In spite of everything, you love it. And you'll never stop giving yourself to it, just the way you'll never stop giving yourself to Jack. No matter what he does or becomes, you will fight for him and defend him. Same for this world we're stuck with. Jack'll never thank you for it. He'll take it for granted because he trusts in your love for him. The world that uses you up bit by bit won't thank you either. But none of that will ever stop you."

"You make me sound stupid. Or crazy."

This time Rossi's grin stayed a little longer. "All the best people are, Aaron. All the best people are."

Both men sipped at the declining levels in their glasses.

When the drinks were finished, the agents rose and headed toward the tavern door, ready to leave by unspoken, mutual consent. The walked across the parking lot as they spent so much of their time: side by side. Rossi placed a hand on his leader's arm.

"Aaron, that kind of stubborn, unconditional, self-sacrificing love hurts. But it's the saving grace of the world. Don't ever doubt that."

Hotch paused at his car, giving his old friend a considering look. "Sometimes it's hard to see it that way. And, again, it doesn't feel as though there's a choice involved."

"Good night, Aaron. See you tomorrow."

"Night. Thanks for the drink. Sleep well."

Rossi waited, looking after Hotch until he'd pulled out into the sparse, late night traffic. He slid behind the wheel of his BMW and looked up in time to see the Unit Chief's taillights turn a corner and disappear from sight.

"No, I don't suppose you have a choice, Aaron. And thank God for that, 'cause the world needs its knights."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch parked in front of his building.

He entered his apartment with soft steps and furtive movements. He didn't want to disturb anyone's rest. He knew how rare a good night's sleep could be. He peered into the guest room, checking on his sister-in-law.

All was quiet; her face peaceful.

He entered Jack's room next, moving to the bedside where he could study every detail of his son; could inhale every scent. Hotch knelt where he could be almost nose to nose with the boy. After a few minutes, Jack's lips twitched in a smile. A small hand crept out from under the blankets, coming to rest against Aaron's cheek.

He didn't wake up. His eyes never opened. But Hotch heard the barest breath of a word…

… "Daddy…"…

For the first time since he'd blundered into an unsub's nightmarish leavings, Aaron felt a touch of peace loosen the tension in his chest. He gazed at his son and rubbed his cheek against the small hand.

 _You're wrong, Dave. I do get thanked. Like this. I get all the thanks I need._

XXXXXXXXX

Rossi found there was still no sleep in him.

He cleaned up the mess he'd known Mudge would leave when he was so late getting home and patted the dog's head. "Sorry, boy. My fault." He chuckled. "Talk about having no choice, huh?"

Eventually Dave wandered into his study.

He switched on his computer and brought up a blank page in his word processing program. For a moment he considered the events of the night. The idea of choices. Hotch's dismissal of an old proverb as 'trite.'

He smiled. _Aaron sings. I write._

He began to type.

'Once upon a time, there was a dark and stormy night…'

It was the beginning of a new book he rather thought his publisher would enjoy. From two of the most trite phrases in literature he would weave a story about a most uncommon man.

'Once upon a time, there was a dark and stormy night… but the night and the storm were in the soul of a man, a knight who carried a gun and a badge…and felt he had no choice in the matter…'

~The End~


End file.
